


there’s a world out there and it’s calling my name

by pelvicbones



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - The Politician Fusion, Elections, F/F, F/M, basically a throwaway but hope u enjoy, drunk binged the politician nd this is what we got sry, echo has a purpose in this nd i love her for once!!, i made that tag!!, murphy and monty are literally only mentioned in this lmfao, watch the politician bc it's better than this garbage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-09 09:00:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20850845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pelvicbones/pseuds/pelvicbones
Summary: When Clarke was little, adults would simply chuckle when she paraded around claiming to be the future President of the United States. Now, at eighteen, people actually see it, can envision her speaking from behind a podium and invigorating a crowd to give a fuck about whatever she thinks will get her re-elected.  – To put it simply, she’ll do anything to win Senior Class President.ORThe Politician Fusion no one wanted.





	there’s a world out there and it’s calling my name

**Author's Note:**

> y’all, idek anymore. i have like fifteen fics going, but bellamy blake keeps appearing to me in my dreams and keeps handing me more ideas. my insomnia is loving this development, but i am massively overwhelmed bc i don’t know where to focus my attention!! i took a break a few days ago by getting drunk and watching the politician on netflix, thinking i was finally safe – BUT nope. now we all got this a fricking lame-ass politician fusion no one wanted. i’m not cliched enough to make bellamy and clarke run against each other bc i’d rather stan an older boyfriend who listens to his girlfriend babble abt her crazy shit!! i could’ve really spun out and wrote a multi-chap, but i! don’t/can’t! do! that! watch the show if u want higher-stakes political drama – i could only manage to steal a few parts from the show before my brain gave out. plus, i was moderately inebriated enough when i started planning this fic nd the side plots were too complex to add in.
> 
> was murphy chosen to be clarke’s opponent because he has displayed literal murderous tendencies or bc i’m giving kudos to ryan murphy? we may never know. is abby an absent parent as per usual? – do we have to ask?
> 
> title snatched from “yes i’m changing” by tame impala (yes it was featured in the show kiss my ass!!).
> 
> my editing of this consisted of me dumping it onto grammarly and then throwing my hands in the air bc i needed to get rid of one of the million fics on my computer, sry.

“You’re up three points from last week,” Echo drawls**, **inspecting a piece of honeydew between her fingers. “Progress is slower than I was expecting at this point in your campaign, but projections show you’re in good standing.”

Clarke pushes down her sunglasses with one finger, limbs stiffening on her pool float, “Echo, isn’t your job to force people to vote for me?”

Echo gives her a pointed glare, “I can’t convince every student at Arkadia High that you’re not a pretentious prick, Griffin.”

(Echo squishes the honeydew until juice trails down her wrists. Clarke thinks it’s supposed to be menacing, but Clarke keeps heavily detailed records on all of her acquaintances, friends, and, _especially_, staff. She’s not scared of Echo, Echo is scared of _her_.)

Clarke sighs heavily, pushes her sunglasses back up, sprawls out more on her float, “Well, Jesus, try harder or fucking lean into my status as an asshole. I’m not here to do your job.”

Raven snorts from her spot on one of the pool chairs, hanging upside down, computer precariously balanced on her belly, “If I don’t become a functioning alcoholic by the end of this election, I’m going to be highly shocked.” To punctuate her point, she sips at a mimosa.

“Stay sharp, Raven,” Clarke admonishes. “We all need to be on our A-game if we’re going to take this presidency – if I need to remind you, this is just one step in our journey to the White House.”

Echo rolls her eyes, “As the person who spent the last year creating your highly detailed pathway to the highest office of the United States, I don’t need reminding.”

Clarke waves her hand in Echo’s direction, “I need you to serve me with less snark and more actions. Plans. Who the fuck are we going to choose for my running mate?”

– Here’s the thing: Clarke Griffin knows that most people would consider it insane to care this much about a high school election. There have been moments where she’s stayed up until sunrise writing speeches or strategizing how to target particular demographics and she’s thought – _this is_ not _worth the hassle_. She’s hot, rich, has an IQ of 138 (her mom, who forced her to take the test instead of going to her middle school formal, was disappointed by the two points that made her less than _superior_), a friend group willing to devote their abundant resources (time, money, and status) to her, and an insanely beautiful secret boyfriend.

But there’s something Clarke has always _wanted_ more than other people. She doesn’t ache for wealth or popularity. Hell, most of the time, she doesn’t even put much weight into love. Clarke has always wanted power, wanted to feel it course through her as she stared down an insubordinate Cabinet member, wanted the fucking nuclear codes delivered her desk upon the snap of her fingers (even if she, publicly, will denounce the use of nuclear weapons – she says a lot of things). When she was little, adults would simply chuckle as she paraded around claiming to be the future President of the United States (“_so watch out_”)_._ Now, at eighteen, people actually see it, can envision her speaking from behind a podium and invigorating a crowd to give a fuck about whatever she thinks will get her re-elected. She likes that they look at her and see her goddamn potential. If she has to focus most of her manic energy into winning, so be it. If she has to have a perfect image of her dead father’s disappointed expression when he finally realized she wasn’t looking to make the world a better place etched behind her eyes when she goes to sleep at night, she’ll just up her hours at therapy. She’ll do whatever she has to in order to win.

So, she wasn’t expecting, as Echo calls him in her weekly reports, “_The Distraction_.” Six months ago, her mom had been badgering her to add something new to her repertoire, an activity to push her almost immaculate application to Harvard to undeniability status, so, Clarke decided to get drunk. She scrolled through Echo’s analyses about successful applicants, saw the word “tagalong” and forwarded the idea to her mom without much more thought. Enter: Bellamy Blake.

Clarke never really got _crushes_, always rolled her eyes when the girls in her grade would incessantly yammer on about the arms on some pimply boy in third period. Clarke was almost always direct – fulfilled her needs with whoever was suitable enough, shook their hands, and wiped her hands clean. She made exceptions for Finn and Lexa only because they were _exceptional enough_ and let herself cry for approximately five minutes after each breakup. With Finn, she was deemed quote _more concerned with her political dreams than this relationship_ unquote. Lexa got bored of being surrounded by politics both at home and in the bedroom, politely told Clarke she was more interested in a quiet artist she had known her whole life, and that was it.

So, when Clarke pulled her arm from where it was draped across her eyes, saw her new tutor, and felt her heart race like an idiot, she knew she was positively fucked. Within the first half-hour of their first session, Bellamy proved he was not insanely hot, but different than most people she met in her exclusive social world. He was, for one, twenty-three and still a junior in college, but also lower-middle class, biracial (Echo’s demographic report of her constituents: seventy-three point six percent white), and _kind_. He was probably one of the most exotic people she had met and Echo was six percent indigenous, for Christ’s sake. She felt an impulsive need to share private things that weren’t relevant to the success of her political career when he disclosed crumbs of his personal life. After Bellamy left, hand lingering for two whole seconds after they shook hands in parting, Clarke called Raven and uncharacteristically asked what the fuck she should do.

“Do what you always do,” Raven said, only slightly disinterested. Clarke imagined her painting her nails on her bed (the one habit Raven kept from when she was “broke as fuck”), Netflix paused on her favorite trashy reality show, shrugging to herself. “Fuck the guy and move on.”

So, Clarke tried to do that. Looked up how to say “fuck me, please” in Tagalong, put on her best _i’m trying to seduce you, but I’m too powerful to admit it_ outfit, and hit Bellamy with all she had when he came over to tutor her. He looked at her for a while when she repeated her translation, rubbed his curly hair in a daze, and choked out _i think Google Translate may have backfired on you_ before pouncing on her.

But the whole plan ended up backfiring on her, which is why she regularly finds herself cursing out her political adversary, John Murphy, with Bellamy’s hands up her skirt. Echo tells her to dump his ass on a regular basis, but Clarke tells her if JFK got to fuck Marylin Monroe on the side, she gets to have this. Besides, Bellamy has quickly caught onto politics (from years of reading Roman history for fun, the nerd) and has proved himself useful other than feeding the flames that curl into her toes when she looks at him.

“Not that I don’t love your ruthless ambition,” he interrupts during one of her rants (about Echo’s recent voter analysis: _how the fuck is john murphy getting the delinquent population to give a shit)_, fingers skimming her lace underwear, “But what are you trying to achieve?”

Clarke blinks, “I don’t understand what you mean. I want to be in the Oval Office.” She thinks for a minute, “Scratch that, I want to be the _youngest_ president in the Oval Office.”

Bellamy snorts, pulling his hands away (to her distaste), “I mean… What do you want other than that? Solve the global food crisis? Reduce the world population by bringing back eugenics?” He pulls her into his chest, breathes into the shell of her ear, “What is the point for you?”

Clarke knows she should have a real answer to this – even thinks of her dad always trying to get her to actually care about her Model UN solutions instead of perfecting the logic to win. She just… doesn’t have a platform that she won’t tweak to appeal to the masses. But she can never say that to Bellamy, not when he actually gives a shit about _people_ and _her_, so she lands on, “I just think I can do better, is all.”

He smiles into her hair and she tries to make herself believe it when she turns around to fuck his brains out – she really does.

So, for Bellamy, she finds herself announcing abruptly at her next strategy meeting, hands clasped tightly in front of her, “We need a new issue. Something more in the realm of social justice, rather than policy. I need to provide our people with something they can actually give a fuck about.”

Echo snorts, rolling her eyes, mouthing the words _the distraction_, but Raven considers it. She chomps down the last remaining part of her popsicle in thought and says, “Fine, but we can’t half-ass it. People will see right through it if it looks desperate.”

Clarke caws at the accusation, “I’m not doing this as a ploy, Raven. I care about social justice shit. I voted for Hillary! I donate to Planned Parenthood!”

Echo yawns, stretches out her limbs under the table, bumping into Clarke’s leg, “You’re not really a _people_ kind of politician.”

Clarke gestures wildly at Echo with her pen, “I resent that – I am very much a people kind of politician! I just announced my stance on the heartbeat bill on _Snapchat_ for fuck’s sake.”

Echo and Raven exchange a look. Raven sighs, taking the lead, “Look, Clarke. It’s not that you’re not appealing to the people, it’s just –“

“You use social media like a fifty-year-old white man,” Echo interrupts, always blunt. “If you weren’t hot and not so secretly fucking the hottest man in town, I’m pretty sure social media wouldn’t add to this campaign.”

Clarke throws up her hands, “I am an attractive, responsible young woman who cares about local and national legislation. In this day and age, I am _prime_ social media fodder.”

Raven licks her fingers, “I literally just posted a selfie of you in a bikini to get people to give a damn about your latest think-piece, so chill with the indignation and play to your strengths.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, “It was a tasteful picture that _punctuated_ my position about climate change affecting skin cancer rates.” She stabbed a finger at Echo, “You said it was a solid political move for someone in the Gen Z bracket.” Before either Raven and Echo can continue, Clarke puts her face in her palms and sighs, “Look, I don’t care about my social media image. I’m just asking you guys to help me come up with _something_, okay? Let’s _do_ something instead of just saying I believe in things.”

“Hear me out,” Raven starts, “Let’s _finally_ choose your running mate. We can do a lot of good if we get someone that already has a social justice background, maybe belongs to some demographics we need to tap into – someone that can round you out.”

Echo snorts, “So, _you_?”

“Fuck, no,” Raven retorts. “Get your ableist ass away from me. I was thinking maybe Monroe – that gender-queer activist who’s always holding rallies on the quad?”

“White,” Echo says, firmly, “And has recently obtained a gun permit. Doesn’t mesh with our gun-control event. Next?”

Raven taps out an angry circle on the table, “Jesus Christ. Fuck, I don’t know. Gaia?”

Clarke barks out a laugh, “I may be a feminist, but I want to _win_. An all-female ticket with an all-female campaign team? Do you want me to be laughed out of Washington before I even get there? Do you want Murphy, the _troll_, to be able to tear me to shreds with a single, stupidly witty jab?”

Raven rolls her eyes, “When you asked me to be on your team, I told you I should be in charge of rigging the voting booths. I’m obviously amazing at this job, because I’m awesome, but I don’t have all the answers, Clarke.” She rises to her feet and tosses the files on all their potential running mates to Clarke, “I need a stiff drink. Take a Xanax, calm the fuck down for once, and look over these tonight.”

Clarke doesn’t take a Xanax, calls Bellamy instead. As his hands make their way down her pants, mouth on her nipples, she pants out, “Am I a shitty person if I choose a running mate based on their minority status?”

He gives her a _look_, “Yes, Clarke. That is a shitty reason to choose a running mate.”

Even so, he still touches her like she’s a deity, looks at her like she’s one too. Half the time, she secretly feels small and insignificant, but he makes her feel like she’s in charge of an entire group of people.

“Okay,” she says, softly. “I won’t do it then.”

(She does, obviously. Picks up Monty Green’s file from the bunch when Bellamy is sound asleep, texts her choice to the group chat, and, once she gets the thumbs up from both Echo and Raven, curls into Bellamy’s side.)

Monty Green helps her get her numbers up. He’s easy-going, down to earth, pansexual, and genuinely cares about the fate of Earth – always proposing eco-friendly policies. (“And not white,” Echo always adds, blunt as ever, knowing Raven and Clarke were biting their tongues.) He appeals to some of Murphy’s more moderate supporters, which is _good_, considering Murphy chose Monroe as his running mate and their campaign is edging towards the conservative. (“Told you,” Echo says to Raven, almost teasingly. Clarke is starting to think they’re fucking on the side, but that’s _not _her business.)

The numbers start to lean considerably to her favor when Monty announces their plan to ban single-use straws and donate a portion of this year’s prom to saving the turtles. (“Fucking Gen Zers,” Clarke mutters through her teeth as she smiles and waves to the cheering crowd.) So, she shouldn’t be surprised when an assassination plot comes into play, but when she vomits blood onto Bellamy’s sweater during a rare public date night, she’s can’t help but feel decently impressed by Murphy’s instinct to return to his sociopathic ways.

Bellamy starts crying when the paramedics strap her onto a gurney, babbling over her. She wants to comfort him, wants to say something soothing because she hates seeing him like this, but just murmurs through another wave of nausea, “It’s in the job description, Bell.”

Before she blacks out, his eyes practically turn red, spitting, “This is fucking crazy, Clarke. I fucking love you, but don’t you see this is fucking crazy?”

Bellamy isn’t there when she wakes up, but Raven and Echo are diligently working in the corner of her private hospital room, affectionately bickering about something.

“My mouth tastes like pennies from the sewer,” Clarke says, shakily rising up in her bed.

Raven rushes over first, pushing Clarke down gently, “Don’t move, you idiot.” Raven’s voice is soft and Clarke feels a rush of panic through the exhaustion. “Doctors said you need some rest.”

“Is my mom here?” Clarke asks, weak. She feels like a baby two seconds after asking.

Echo nods, “She’s yelling at the aforementioned doctors. Apparently, they almost missed you going into toxic shock.”

Clarke nods back slowly, processing the information. Croaks out, “A-and Bell?”

Raven and Echo share a look before Raven turns to Clarke, wincing slightly, “He was here when they first brought you in. Your mom sent him away because he was getting a little… overwhelmed.”

Echo adds, quickly, “However, the good news is that this whole incident has put us in a better position than the whole campaign.” Raven glares at Echo, but she ignores it, “Monty has been giving the public updates, your socials are _blowing up_, and Murphy has dropped out and fucked off somewhere. But… Monroe is still in it and kind of gaining traction by pretending to care about your health.”

Raven hisses, “Echo, Clarke does not need to hear about this right now.” She shoots Clarke an apologetic look.

Clarke sighs, “It’s okay, Raven. I need to hear this.” She moves upright, despite Raven’s insistence she doesn’t over-exert herself. Closes her eyes, weakly pleads, “Can you get – can you get Bellamy though?”

When she opens her eyes, Raven and Echo are both looking at the floor and it _hits_ Clarke. He’s not coming. He’s finally seen what she really is, just like Finn and Lexa did – but this time, it actually _hurts_. Tears spring to her eyes and she starts to frantically wipe them away, tries to realign herself, “Fuck, okay. I get it. He’s not coming.” She inhales deeply, “Okay. So, numbers. Give me the numbers.”

“Babe,” Raven says, softly.

“Nope, this is not the time to mourn my relationship,” Clarke asserts. “We need to – we need to make sure I write a statement saying I’m okay. Monroe is playing the cards right by showing support, but it can easily be turned on me. Like – like people could start saying that I’m unfit for office because my body gave up against whatever shit Murphy used on me and –“

“Clarke,” Echo interrupts. She almost sounds like she cares and it rouses Clarke out of spinning out. “Maybe… maybe Raven’s right. Maybe you should,” she exhales for a long time, “give up.”

Clarke blinks, starts laughing hysterically, “You don’t mean that. You told me I _need_ this. How am I ever going to be President if I can’t win a fucking high school election? Echo,” she stutters, “The projections, your pathway. If I give up now…”

Raven pushes Clarke aside, taking a while to get her brace onto the bed, softly whispers, “We’ll find another way to get you to the White House if you still want that. But… right now, you need to rest. For the entire time I’ve known you, you’ve been single-minded about _winning_... And it’s not healthy right now.”

“But,” Clarke’s voice cracks, “This is _all_ I’ve ever wanted. I was _born_ to do this. Raven, please. Echo. Don’t make me give up. _Please_.”

Echo walks over, touches Clarke’s temple, and looks her in the eye.

“You’re going to get to do everything you want to do in this life,” she says softly. Clarke’s heart aches at the uncharacteristic care. “I’m going to make sure of that. But I don’t want to see you like this – I – I don’t want you to _die_ before you get to change the world.” She puts her hand on Clarke’s shoulder when Clarke starts to cry, “This fight may be over, but there are going to be plenty more ahead of us, Madam President.”

Clarke cries and cries – keeps crying when her friends talk to Abby in the hallway, when they call Monty and tell him the news, offering their support as his campaign advisors. Cries harder when Bellamy rushes in, two hours later, looking simultaneously panicked and like he has his tail between his legs.

“I’m sorry,” he says, cupping her face in his hands. Kisses the tears off her face, “I saw that you dropped out. I’m so, so sorry, Clarke. I didn’t mean to – I don’t know why I did that. I’m so fucking _stupid_, forgive me, okay?”

She just sobs into his chest until she falls asleep, dreams about concession speeches.

Two weeks later, she watches Monty and Gaia make their victory lap across the auditorium stage, shouting out their thanks over the din of applause. Echo and Raven are trying to discretely hold hands and Clarke rolls her eyes.

“Which one of you wrote this speech?” she asks. Raven doesn’t even deign her with a verbal response, just shoots her a look. “It has no edge, no point. Where are the _promises_? What are their first _measures_?”

“Clarke,” Raven clucks, putting her free hand over Clarke’s. “They’re not _you_. Couldn’t waste my best speech.”

Raven reads her the acceptance speech only after Clarke has been given the all-clear, in the corner of Clarke’s _congrats on not dying!_ / pity party. Clarke cries, because she does that now, and clutches at Bellamy’s hand while simultaneously taking a swig from a bottle of incredibly expensive champagne. She raises the bottle to Raven, sniffling, “Okay, I’ll give you that one. That was a pretty good fucking speech.”

Later, when everyone has gone, Bellamy pulls her onto her couch, intertwines their limbs, “I know you wanted this to be a victory party, Princess. I’m sorry.”

She twists to look at him, smiles fondly at him, “I _did_, but… It’s okay. It won't suck to take a break for once - try to make sure I make it to college, kiss my boyfriend in public.” She kisses him and relishes in the feeling of his arms around her before she pulls away. “And I’m not a princess, Bell,” she smirks, “I’m the future fucking President of the United States.”

**Author's Note:**

> i really had to give up y’all, so i’m sorry if it seems rushed halfway thru. i have a separate four page doc of all the scenes and crazy shit i was gonna add (rife with stupid notes to myself), but i can’t anymore.
> 
> obviously, clarke is going to be one of many female presidents and bring up that bellamy is her first man a lot. the end!!


End file.
